When I was 5 years old, I could read pretty much anything. And I did.
It was especially traumatizing for me, when, hungry for some sort of readable material, ANY material, I found my mother's romance novels.

That's a lot to take in at 5 years old.

Grump is only 6 months old, but already, he has a voracity for books. We MUST read him Batman books every night before bed. Occasionally, I'll slip in some Sesame Street, or some award-winning children's book, but he doesn't care for them. He just loves Batman.

I've always loved the books by Anne McCaffrey. The world of Pern held my gaze when I was as little as 8 years old-every novel was another opportunity to fight a deadly battle with a dragon by my side.

Today I did minimal editing--I upped the temp a bit on my shots, because I shot at White Flourescent lighting for the first few minutes, but otherwise, I felt like the organic feel of the images appealed to my urgent need to grasp at every little moment of time I could get my greedy fingers on.

Too soon, he'll be walking, and then running, and then jumping, and then falling. Soon his world will be dirt, and bicycle wheels, and war wounds, and falling in love with Jocelyn in kindergarten, and giving her an earthworm ring to seal the pending marriage.

So tonight, I'm posting, and running, so I can scoop up my tiny little Grump, and listen to his belly laugh, and breathe in his baby smell, and revel in the glorious gift and mystery and even slight terror of watching another life unfold.